The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell Oxford edition: Edited, with notes by J. Logie Robertson |
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| SONGS OF BATTLE |
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 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell |  |
187
SONGS OF BATTLE
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
I
Ye Mariners of EnglandThat guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze—
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow,—
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
II
The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow,—
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
188
III
Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow,—
When the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
IV
The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,—
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
189
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC
I
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone,—
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand;
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
II
Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
190
III
But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
‘Hearts of oak!’ our captain cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
IV
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back:
Their shots along the deep slowly boom;
Then ceased—and all is wail
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
V
Out spoke the victor thenAs he hailed them o'er the wave,
‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save;
So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.’
191
VI
Then Denmark blessed our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
VII
Now joy, Old England, raiseFor the tidings of thy might
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
VIII
Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died
With the gallant good Riou—
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
[Battle of the Baltic]
The Battle of Copenhagen
First Draft
Of Nelson and the North
Sing the day,
When their haughty powers to vex
He engaged the Danish decks,
And with twenty floating wrecks
Crowned the fray.
Sing the day,
When their haughty powers to vex
He engaged the Danish decks,
And with twenty floating wrecks
Crowned the fray.
All bright in April's sun
Shone the day,
When a British fleet came down
Through the islands of the crown,
And by Copenhagen town
Took their stay.
Shone the day,
When a British fleet came down
Through the islands of the crown,
And by Copenhagen town
Took their stay.
In arms the Danish shore
Proudly shone,—
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand;
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Proudly shone,—
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand;
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
For Denmark here had drawn
All her might:
From her battleships so rash
She had hewn away the mast,
And at anchor to the last
Bade them fight.
All her might:
From her battleships so rash
She had hewn away the mast,
And at anchor to the last
Bade them fight.
193
Another noble fleet
Of their line
Rode out, but these were naught
To the batteries which they brought
Like leviathans afloat
In the brine.
Of their line
Rode out, but these were naught
To the batteries which they brought
Like leviathans afloat
In the brine.
It was ten of Thursday morn
By the chime;
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
By the chime;
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
Ere a first and fatal round
Shook the flood,
Every Dane looked out that day
Like the red wolf on his prey,
And he swore his flag to sway
O'er our blood.
Shook the flood,
Every Dane looked out that day
Like the red wolf on his prey,
And he swore his flag to sway
O'er our blood.
Not such a mind possessed
England's tar;
'Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame,
For to him 'twas all the same—
Sport and war.
England's tar;
'Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame,
For to him 'twas all the same—
Sport and war.
All hands and eyes on watch
As they keep,
By their motion, light as wings,
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep!
As they keep,
By their motion, light as wings,
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep!
'Twas the Edgar first that smote
Denmark's line;
As her flag the foremost soared
Murray stamped his foot on board,
And a hundred cannons roared
At the sign!
Denmark's line;
As her flag the foremost soared
Murray stamped his foot on board,
And a hundred cannons roared
At the sign!
Three cheers of all the fleet
Sung huzza!
Thus from centre, rear, and van,
Every captain, every man,
With a lion's heart began
To the fray.
Sung huzza!
Thus from centre, rear, and van,
Every captain, every man,
With a lion's heart began
To the fray.
194
Oh, dark grew soon the heavens,
For each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like a hurricane eclipse
Of the sun!
For each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like a hurricane eclipse
Of the sun!
Three hours the raging fire
Did not slack;
But the fourth their signals drear
Of distress and wreck appear,
And the Dane a feeble cheer
Sent us back.
Did not slack;
But the fourth their signals drear
Of distress and wreck appear,
And the Dane a feeble cheer
Sent us back.
The voice decayed: their shots
Slowly boom:
They ceased,—and all is wail
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Slowly boom:
They ceased,—and all is wail
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Oh, death! it was a sight
Filled our eyes!
But we rescued many a crew
From the waves of scarlet hue,
Ere the cross of England flew
O'er her prize.
Filled our eyes!
But we rescued many a crew
From the waves of scarlet hue,
Ere the cross of England flew
O'er her prize.
Why ceased not here the strife,
O ye brave?
Why bleeds Old England's band
By the fire of Danish land
That smites the very hand
Stretched to save?
O ye brave?
Why bleeds Old England's band
By the fire of Danish land
That smites the very hand
Stretched to save?
But the Britons sent to warn
Denmark's town—
Proud foes, let vengeance sleep!
If another chain-shot sweep
All your navy in the deep
Shall go down!
Denmark's town—
Proud foes, let vengeance sleep!
If another chain-shot sweep
All your navy in the deep
Shall go down!
Then Peace instead of Death
Let us bring!
If you'll yield your conquered fleet
With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King!
Let us bring!
If you'll yield your conquered fleet
With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King!
195
Then death withdrew his pall
From the day,
And the sun looked smiling bright
On a wide and woeful sight.
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
From the day,
And the sun looked smiling bright
On a wide and woeful sight.
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Yet all amidst her wrecks
And her gore,
Proud Denmark blessed our Chief
That he gave her wounds relief;
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled her shore.
And her gore,
Proud Denmark blessed our Chief
That he gave her wounds relief;
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled her shore.
All round outlandish cries
Loudly broke;
But a nobler note was rung
When the British, old and young,
To their bands of music sung
‘Hearts of oak!’
Loudly broke;
But a nobler note was rung
When the British, old and young,
To their bands of music sung
‘Hearts of oak!’
Cheer! cheer from park and tower,
London town!
When the King shall ride in state
From St. James's royal gate,
And to all his Peers relate
Our renown!
London town!
When the King shall ride in state
From St. James's royal gate,
And to all his Peers relate
Our renown!
The bells shall ring! the day
Shall not close
But a blaze of cities bright
Shall illuminate the night,
And the wine-cup shine in light
As it flows!
Shall not close
But a blaze of cities bright
Shall illuminate the night,
And the wine-cup shine in light
As it flows!
Yet, yet amid the joy
And uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
All beside thy rocky steep,
Elsinore!
And uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
All beside thy rocky steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's need
Once so true!
Tho' death has quenched your flame,
Yet immortal be your name,
For ye died the death of fame
With Riou!
Once so true!
Tho' death has quenched your flame,
Yet immortal be your name,
For ye died the death of fame
With Riou!
196
Soft sigh the winds of heaven
O'er your grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
O'er your grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
HOHENLINDEN
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
197
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THE WOUNDED HUSSAR
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
‘Oh, whither,’ she cried, ‘hast thou wandered, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
‘Oh, whither,’ she cried, ‘hast thou wandered, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
‘What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sighed!’
All mournful she hastened; nor wandered she far,
When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried
By the light of the moon her poor wounded Hussar!
All mournful she hastened; nor wandered she far,
When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried
By the light of the moon her poor wounded Hussar!
From his bosom that heaved the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar!
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love and that kindled in war!
And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar!
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love and that kindled in war!
198
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
‘Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?’
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
‘Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?’
‘Thou shalt live,’ she replied; ‘Heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!’
‘Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!’
‘Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
‘Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar—’
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar—’
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
199
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
In life's morning march when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
‘Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn!’
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
STANZAS
ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803
Our bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
And our oath is recorded on high
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
200
'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust—
God bless the green Isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
God bless the green Isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,
Profaning its loves and its charms?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh my Country, to arms!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
Profaning its loves and its charms?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh my Country, to arms!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen?—No!
His head to the sword shall be given—
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
His head to the sword shall be given—
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
LINES
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT, 1809.
Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!
Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!
And be it deemed not wrong that name to give
In festive hours which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?
In festive hours which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?
201
Yes! though, too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given,
Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!
To us his bright career too short was given,
Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!
How oft, if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart, in secret shall it mourn
For him! how oft on far Corunna's plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!
One patriot heart, in secret shall it mourn
For him! how oft on far Corunna's plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!
Peace to the mighty dead! Our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! On Freedom's hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.
Dear symbol wild! On Freedom's hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.
Joy to the band—this day on Egypt's coast
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized invincible in Austria's gore!
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized invincible in Austria's gore!
Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia's host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia's host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join
To pray that in eternal union dear
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join
To pray that in eternal union dear
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
202
TROUBADOUR SONG
ON THE MORNING OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO
I have buckled the sword to my side,
I have woke at the sound of the drum;
For the banners of France are descried,
And the day of the battle is come!
Thick as dew-drops bespangling the grass
Shine our arms o'er the field of renown,
And the sun looks on thousands, alas!
That will never behold him go down!
I have woke at the sound of the drum;
For the banners of France are descried,
And the day of the battle is come!
Thick as dew-drops bespangling the grass
Shine our arms o'er the field of renown,
And the sun looks on thousands, alas!
That will never behold him go down!
Oh, my saint! oh, my mistress! this morn
On thy name how I rest like a charm,
Every dastard sensation to scorn
In the moment of death and alarm!
For what are those foemen to fear,
Or the death-shot descending to crush,
Like the thought that the cheek of my dear
For a stain on my honour should blush?
On thy name how I rest like a charm,
Every dastard sensation to scorn
In the moment of death and alarm!
For what are those foemen to fear,
Or the death-shot descending to crush,
Like the thought that the cheek of my dear
For a stain on my honour should blush?
Fallen chiefs, when the battle is o'er,
Shall to glory their ashes entrust,
While the heart that loves thee to its core
May be namelessly laid in the dust.
Yet content to the combat I go—
Let my love in thy memory rest;
Nor my name shall be lost, for I know
That it lives in the shrine of thy breast!
Shall to glory their ashes entrust,
While the heart that loves thee to its core
May be namelessly laid in the dust.
Yet content to the combat I go—
Let my love in thy memory rest;
Nor my name shall be lost, for I know
That it lives in the shrine of thy breast!
203
SONG
[When Napoleon was flying]
When Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo
A British soldier dying
To his brother bade adieu!
From the field of Waterloo
A British soldier dying
To his brother bade adieu!
‘And take,’ he said, ‘this token
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath.’
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath.’
Sore mourned the brother's heart
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warned to part,
And they took a sad farewell.
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warned to part,
And they took a sad farewell.
There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sighed;
But the maiden of his bosom
Wept when all their tears were dried.
For that gallant soldier sighed;
But the maiden of his bosom
Wept when all their tears were dried.
SONG
‘MEN OF ENGLAND’
Men of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood
By the foes ye've fought, uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done.
Trophies captured—breaches mounted,
Navies conquered—kingdoms won!
By the glorious deeds ye've done.
Trophies captured—breaches mounted,
Navies conquered—kingdoms won!
204
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
Pageants!—Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.
Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story
Worth a hundred Agincourts!
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story
Worth a hundred Agincourts!
We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:—
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights—so will we!
Crowned and mitred tyranny:—
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights—so will we!
SONG OF THE GREEKS
Again to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree—
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free!
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves!
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree—
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free!
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves!
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And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide—waves engulf—fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;
To the charge! Heaven's banner is o'er us.
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide—waves engulf—fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;
To the charge! Heaven's banner is o'er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say! shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from the named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home! and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say! shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from the named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home! and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
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Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their whitewaving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their whitewaving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND
Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head?—Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead.
There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb,
And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom,
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth:
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,
Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner's glance.
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle.
The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,
And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire;
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray,
And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far away,
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As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,
High bounding from billow to billow; each form
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;
With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand
Fast they ploughed by the lee-shore of Heligoland
Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er crossed;
Now surf-sunk for minutes, again they uptossed,
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood
To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood—
‘We are dead—we are bound from our graves in the west,
First to Hecla, and then to—’ Unmeet was the rest
For man's ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang,
And their eyes gleamed with phosphorous light as it rang:
Ere they vanished they stopped, and gazed silently grim,
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature and limb.
Now who were those roamers?—of gallows or wheel
Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel?
No, by magistrates' chains 'mid their grave-clothes you saw
They were felons too proud to have perished by law;
But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been—
'Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green—
Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and driven
To rebellion the fairest isle breathed on by Heaven,—
208
If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask.
They parted—but not till the sight might discern
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern,
Where letters, emblazoned in blood-coloured flame,
Named their faction—I blot not my page with its name.
STANZAS
ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO
Hearts of oak that have bravely delivered the brave,
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
'Twas the helpless to help and the hopeless to save
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine;
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave
The light of your glory shall shine.
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
'Twas the helpless to help and the hopeless to save
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine;
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave
The light of your glory shall shine.
For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?
No! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil
The uprooter of Greece's domain!
When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,
Till her famished sank pale as the slain!
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?
No! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil
The uprooter of Greece's domain!
When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,
Till her famished sank pale as the slain!
Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed
The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed?
Are they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed,
And oblivion shadow their graves!
Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed,
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves!
The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed?
Are they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed,
And oblivion shadow their graves!
Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed,
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves!
209
Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore
That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore?
That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more
By the hand of Infanticide grasped?
And that stretched on yon billows, distained by their gore,
Missolonghi's assassins have gasped?
That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore?
That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more
By the hand of Infanticide grasped?
And that stretched on yon billows, distained by their gore,
Missolonghi's assassins have gasped?
Prouder scene never hallowed war's pomp to the mind
Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social the wind,
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,
Their watchword humanity's vow;
Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honour his brow!
Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social the wind,
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,
Their watchword humanity's vow;
Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honour his brow!
Nor grudge by our side that to conquer or fall
Came the hardy rude Russ and the high-mettled Gaul;
For whose was the genius that planned at its call
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?
All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.
Came the hardy rude Russ and the high-mettled Gaul;
For whose was the genius that planned at its call
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?
All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.
That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek!
Dimmed the Saracen's moon and struck pallid his cheek:
In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speak
When their lore and their lutes they reclaim;
And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak
Shall be Glory to Codrington's name!
Dimmed the Saracen's moon and struck pallid his cheek:
In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speak
When their lore and their lutes they reclaim;
And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak
Shall be Glory to Codrington's name!
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NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR
I love contemplating, apart
From all his homicidal glory,
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.
From all his homicidal glory,
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.
'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
Arm'd in our island every freeman
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
They suffer'd him, I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over
With envy; they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.
Of birds to Britain half-way over
With envy; they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doting,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.
He saw one morning, dreaming, doting,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat
By mighty working.
The live-long day laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat
By mighty working.
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Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.
Description wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt-sea field
It would have made the boldest shudder—
Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,
No sail, no rudder.
It would have made the boldest shudder—
Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,
No sail, no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have passed
The foaming billows.
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have passed
The foaming billows.
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,—
His little Argo sorely jeering
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.
His little Argo sorely jeering
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And, in his wonted attitude,
Address'd the stranger:
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And, in his wonted attitude,
Address'd the stranger:
‘Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned!
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned.’
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned!
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned.’
‘I have no sweetheart,’ said the lad;
‘But, absent long from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother.’
‘But, absent long from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother.’
‘And so thou shalt,’ Napoleon said,
‘Ye've both my favour fairly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.’
‘Ye've both my favour fairly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.’
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He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipp'd to England Old,
And safely landed.
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipp'd to England Old,
And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparté.
To find a dinner, plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparté.
This anecdote has been published in several public journals, both French and British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an Englishman, long resident at Boulogne, lately telling me that he remembered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the place.—T.C.
THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE
England hails thee with emotion,
Mightiest child of naval art!
Heaven resounds thy welcome; Ocean
Takes thee smiling to his heart.
Mightiest child of naval art!
Heaven resounds thy welcome; Ocean
Takes thee smiling to his heart.
Giant oaks of bold expansion
O'er seven hundred acres fell,
All to build thy noble mansion
Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.
O'er seven hundred acres fell,
All to build thy noble mansion
Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.
'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded
Ages long ere we were born;
And our great-grandfathers sounded
Many a jovial hunting-horn.
Ages long ere we were born;
And our great-grandfathers sounded
Many a jovial hunting-horn.
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Oaks that living did inherit
Grandeur from our earth and sky,
Still robust, the native spirit
In your timbers shall not die.
Grandeur from our earth and sky,
Still robust, the native spirit
In your timbers shall not die.
Ship! to shine in martial story,
Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path
Freighted with Britannia's glory
And the thunders of her wrath.
Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path
Freighted with Britannia's glory
And the thunders of her wrath.
Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee
Threatening havoc to their deck,
When afar they first descry thee
Like the coming whirlwind's speck.
Threatening havoc to their deck,
When afar they first descry thee
Like the coming whirlwind's speck.
Gallant bark! thy pomp and beauty
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast
While our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colours to the mast.
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast
While our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colours to the mast.
THE SPANISH PATRIOT'S SONG
How rings each sparkling Spanish brand!
There's music in its rattle;
And gay, as for a saraband,
We gird us for the battle.
Follow, follow!
To the glorious revelry
When the sabres bristle
And the death-shots whistle.
There's music in its rattle;
And gay, as for a saraband,
We gird us for the battle.
Follow, follow!
To the glorious revelry
When the sabres bristle
And the death-shots whistle.
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Of rights for which our swords outspring
Shall Angoulême bereave us?
We've plucked a bird of nobler wing—
The eagle could not brave us.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—
France shall ne'er enslave us:
Tyrants shall not brave us.
Shall Angoulême bereave us?
We've plucked a bird of nobler wing—
The eagle could not brave us.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—
France shall ne'er enslave us:
Tyrants shall not brave us.
Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon's flag,
White emblem of his liver,
For Spain the proud be Freedom's shroud?
Oh, never, never, never.
Follow, follow!
Follow to the fight, and sing—
Liberty for ever—
Ever, ever, ever.
White emblem of his liver,
For Spain the proud be Freedom's shroud?
Oh, never, never, never.
Follow, follow!
Follow to the fight, and sing—
Liberty for ever—
Ever, ever, ever.
Thrice welcome hero of the hilt,
We laugh to see his standard;
Here let his miscreant blood be spilt
Where braver men's was squandered.
Follow, follow!
If the laurelled tricolor
Durst not over-flaunt us,
Shall yon lily daunt us?
We laugh to see his standard;
Here let his miscreant blood be spilt
Where braver men's was squandered.
Follow, follow!
If the laurelled tricolor
Durst not over-flaunt us,
Shall yon lily daunt us?
No! ere they quell our valour's veins
They'll upward to their fountains
Turn back the rivers on our plains
And trample flat our mountains.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—
France shall ne'er enslave us:
Tyrants shall not brave us.
They'll upward to their fountains
Turn back the rivers on our plains
And trample flat our mountains.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—
France shall ne'er enslave us:
Tyrants shall not brave us.
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STANZAS
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULÊME.
Brave men who at the Trocadero fell
Beside your cannons, conquered not though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain;
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay, embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed, ground than priests could make the spot!
What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast
In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee?
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast—
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones of Hell!
Go to your bloody rites again! bring back
The hall of horrors, and the assessor's pen
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men;
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal!
Beside your cannons, conquered not though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain;
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay, embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed, ground than priests could make the spot!
What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast
In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee?
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast—
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones of Hell!
Go to your bloody rites again! bring back
The hall of horrors, and the assessor's pen
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men;
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal!
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Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free—
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these, even parting, scatter as they flee
Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution—show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.
Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free—
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these, even parting, scatter as they flee
Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution—show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.
Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame
Or shape of death to shroud them from applause.
No!—manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangman fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame;
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame
Or shape of death to shroud them from applause.
No!—manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangman fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame;
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
ODE TO THE GERMANS
The Spirit of Britannia
Invokes across the main
Her sister Allemannia
To burst the tyrant's chain:
By our kindred blood she cries,
Rise, Allemannians, rise,
And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free—of the free!
Invokes across the main
Her sister Allemannia
To burst the tyrant's chain:
By our kindred blood she cries,
Rise, Allemannians, rise,
And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free—of the free!
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With Freedom's lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your broad stone of honour
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemannians, wake,
And the tyrants now that whelm
Half the world shall quail and flee
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free—of the free!
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your broad stone of honour
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemannians, wake,
And the tyrants now that whelm
Half the world shall quail and flee
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free—of the free!
Mars owes to you his thunder
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has pealed.
Shall the laurelled land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?
No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound the march of time—
Let it clang oppression's knell
O'er your clime—o'er your clime!
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has pealed.
Shall the laurelled land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?
No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound the march of time—
Let it clang oppression's knell
O'er your clime—o'er your clime!
The press's magic letters—
That blessing ye brought forth;
Behold! it lies in fetters
On the soil that gave it birth!
But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurred;
For you father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven that ye
Shall gird you for the fight,
And be free!—and be free!
That blessing ye brought forth;
Behold! it lies in fetters
On the soil that gave it birth!
But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurred;
For you father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven that ye
Shall gird you for the fight,
And be free!—and be free!
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LINES ON POLAND
And have I lived to see thee, sword in hand,
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land?
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tricolor in shade behind—
A theme for uninspirèd lips too strong,
That swells my heart beyond the power of song.
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath;
Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land?
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tricolor in shade behind—
A theme for uninspirèd lips too strong,
That swells my heart beyond the power of song.
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath;
Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.
Poles! with what indignation I endure
The half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor!
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,
That hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall?
And Germany that has no soul at all?
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone!
No, ye are rich in fame even whilst ye bleed!
We cannot aid you—we are poor indeed!
The half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor!
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,
That hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall?
And Germany that has no soul at all?
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone!
No, ye are rich in fame even whilst ye bleed!
We cannot aid you—we are poor indeed!
In fate's defiance—in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her immortality!
The butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could tear not glory's garland from her brow;
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned,
And all her ashes will be holy ground!
Poland has won her immortality!
The butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could tear not glory's garland from her brow;
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned,
And all her ashes will be holy ground!
But turn, my soul, from presages so dark:
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fanned by Heaven to mock the tyrant's rage:
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,
And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,—
Another Athens after Marathon,
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come—should the heavenly shock my life destroy
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy—
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won—
And on my gravestone shine the morrow's sun!
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravished from the foe,
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altar's elevated host,
The organ sounding through the aisle's long glooms,
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs
(John, Europe's saviour—Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance—Kosciusko's shall be there),
The tapered pomp, the hallelujah's swell—
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fanned by Heaven to mock the tyrant's rage:
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,
219
Another Athens after Marathon,
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come—should the heavenly shock my life destroy
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy—
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won—
And on my gravestone shine the morrow's sun!
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravished from the foe,
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altar's elevated host,
The organ sounding through the aisle's long glooms,
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs
(John, Europe's saviour—Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance—Kosciusko's shall be there),
The tapered pomp, the hallelujah's swell—
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
Should Fate put far, far off that glorious scene,
And gulfs of havoc interpose between,
Imagine not, ye men of every clime,
Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime—
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead
Against the ‘deep damnation of the deed.’
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face.
Is Allemagne profound in science, lore,
And minstrel art?—her shame is but the more
To doze and dream by Governments oppressed,
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast.
And gulfs of havoc interpose between,
Imagine not, ye men of every clime,
Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime—
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead
Against the ‘deep damnation of the deed.’
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face.
Is Allemagne profound in science, lore,
And minstrel art?—her shame is but the more
To doze and dream by Governments oppressed,
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast.
220
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line,
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine;
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke.
Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads
And mystic metaphysics of your heads,
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves?
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine;
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke.
Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads
And mystic metaphysics of your heads,
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves?
See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France,
Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance,
France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh,
Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose
With dying curses and the groans of those
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust!
Brows laurelled, bosoms marked with many a scar
For France, that wore her Legion's noblest star,
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of death
On Gallic honour; and this broken faith
Has robbed you more of Fame, the life of life,
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife!
Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance,
France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh,
Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose
With dying curses and the groans of those
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust!
Brows laurelled, bosoms marked with many a scar
For France, that wore her Legion's noblest star,
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of death
On Gallic honour; and this broken faith
Has robbed you more of Fame, the life of life,
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife!
The fact ought to be universally known that France was indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them.
And what of England? Is she steeped so low
In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so,
That we must sit, much wroth, but timorous more,
With murder knocking at our neighbour's door?
Nor murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life
But Public Murder!—that with pomp and gaud,
And royal scorn of justice, walks abroad
To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung
By all the culprits justice ever hung!
We read the diademed assassin's vaunt,
And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant
With useless indignation—sigh, and frown,
But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down.
In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so,
That we must sit, much wroth, but timorous more,
With murder knocking at our neighbour's door?
Nor murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life
But Public Murder!—that with pomp and gaud,
And royal scorn of justice, walks abroad
To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung
By all the culprits justice ever hung!
We read the diademed assassin's vaunt,
And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant
221
But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down.
If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray,
Or trivial rapine stopped the world's highway,—
Were this some common strife of States embroiled;
Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe,
Still honourably wear her olive wreath.
But this is darkness combating with light:
Earth's adverse principles for empire fight:
Oppression, that has belted half the globe,
Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe,
Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain
That dagger-shakes it at us in disdain,
Talks big to Freedom's States of Poland's thrall,
And, trampling one, contemns them one and all.
Or trivial rapine stopped the world's highway,—
Were this some common strife of States embroiled;
Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe,
Still honourably wear her olive wreath.
But this is darkness combating with light:
Earth's adverse principles for empire fight:
Oppression, that has belted half the globe,
Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe,
Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain
That dagger-shakes it at us in disdain,
Talks big to Freedom's States of Poland's thrall,
And, trampling one, contemns them one and all.
My country! colours not thy once proud brow
At this affront? Hast thou not fleets enow
With glory's streamer, lofty as the lark,
Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark,
To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood
And interdict his flag from ocean's flood?
Even now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing,
I see, my country and my patriot king!
Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow
A war-ship rides; while heaven's prismatic bow,
Uprisen behind her on the horizon's base,
Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays,
And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze.
My soul accepts the omen; fancy's eye
Has sometimes a veracious augury:
The rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight;
The ship, Britannia's interposing might!
At this affront? Hast thou not fleets enow
With glory's streamer, lofty as the lark,
Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark,
To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood
And interdict his flag from ocean's flood?
Even now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing,
I see, my country and my patriot king!
Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow
A war-ship rides; while heaven's prismatic bow,
Uprisen behind her on the horizon's base,
Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays,
And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze.
My soul accepts the omen; fancy's eye
Has sometimes a veracious augury:
The rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight;
The ship, Britannia's interposing might!
222
But, if there should be none to aid you, Poles,
Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls,
Above example, pity, praise or blame,
To sow and reap a boundless field of fame.
Ask aid no more from nations that forget
Your championship—old Europe's mighty debt.
Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom,
She rises not a beggar from the tomb:
In fortune's frown, on danger's giddiest brink,
Despair and Poland's name must never link.
Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls,
Above example, pity, praise or blame,
To sow and reap a boundless field of fame.
Ask aid no more from nations that forget
Your championship—old Europe's mighty debt.
Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom,
She rises not a beggar from the tomb:
In fortune's frown, on danger's giddiest brink,
Despair and Poland's name must never link.
All ills have bounds—plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood:
E'en power can spill but bounded sums of blood.
States caring not what Freedom's price may be
May late or soon, but must at last, be free;
For body-killing tyrants cannot kill
The public soul—the hereditary will
That, downward as from sire to son it goes,
By shifting bosoms more intensely glows:
Its heirloom is the heart, and slaughtered men
Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again.
Poland recasts—though rich in heroes old—
Her men in more and more heroic mould:
Her eagle ensign best among mankind
Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind:
Her praise upon my faltering lips expires—
Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!
E'en power can spill but bounded sums of blood.
States caring not what Freedom's price may be
May late or soon, but must at last, be free;
For body-killing tyrants cannot kill
The public soul—the hereditary will
That, downward as from sire to son it goes,
By shifting bosoms more intensely glows:
Its heirloom is the heart, and slaughtered men
Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again.
Poland recasts—though rich in heroes old—
Her men in more and more heroic mould:
Her eagle ensign best among mankind
Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind:
Her praise upon my faltering lips expires—
Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!
223
THE POWER OF RUSSIA
So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain!
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak
And talons torn, lies prostrated again.
O British patriots, that were wont to speak
Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek!
O heartless men of Europe, Goth and Gaul!
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek!
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall!
The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all!
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak
And talons torn, lies prostrated again.
O British patriots, that were wont to speak
Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek!
O heartless men of Europe, Goth and Gaul!
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek!
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall!
The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all!
But this is not the drama's closing act!
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact!
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate—
A deadly shadow, darkening nature's hue!
To all that's hallowed, righteous, pure, and great,
Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia's withering hate.
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact!
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate—
A deadly shadow, darkening nature's hue!
To all that's hallowed, righteous, pure, and great,
Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia's withering hate.
Russia that on his throne of adamant
Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored,
He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant
His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde,
On patriot tombstones he will whet the sword
For more stupendous slaughters of the free.
Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is poured,
Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee,
All—all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee.
Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored,
He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant
His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde,
On patriot tombstones he will whet the sword
For more stupendous slaughters of the free.
Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is poured,
Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee,
All—all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee.
224
Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled?
O fair occasion, gone for ever by!
To have locked his lances in their northern field,
Innocuous as the phantom chivalry
That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky!
Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land
Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high;
Dig dungeon's deep; for Poland's wrested brand
Is now a weapon new to widen thy command—
O fair occasion, gone for ever by!
To have locked his lances in their northern field,
Innocuous as the phantom chivalry
That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky!
Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land
Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high;
Dig dungeon's deep; for Poland's wrested brand
Is now a weapon new to widen thy command—
An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build
His fleets—the Swede his vassal, and the Dane:
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled
To feed his dazzling, desolating train,
Camped sumless 'twixt the Black and Baltic main:
Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write,
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain:
So Russia's spirit, 'midst Sclavonic night,
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light.
His fleets—the Swede his vassal, and the Dane:
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled
To feed his dazzling, desolating train,
Camped sumless 'twixt the Black and Baltic main:
Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write,
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain:
So Russia's spirit, 'midst Sclavonic night,
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light.
But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen say)
Are crude, and too colossal to cohere.
O lamentable weakness! reckoning weak
The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year.
What implement lacks he for war's career
That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines?
Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere,
Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines,
And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines!
Are crude, and too colossal to cohere.
O lamentable weakness! reckoning weak
The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year.
What implement lacks he for war's career
That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines?
Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere,
Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines,
And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines!
But time will teach the Russ even conquering war
Has handmaid arts: aye, aye, the Russ will woo
All sciences that speed Bellona's car,
All murder's tactic arts, and win them too;
But never holier Muses shall imbue
His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay:
The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue
His laws and ethics—far from him away
Are all the lovely Nine that breathe but freedom's day.
Has handmaid arts: aye, aye, the Russ will woo
All sciences that speed Bellona's car,
All murder's tactic arts, and win them too;
225
His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay:
The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue
His laws and ethics—far from him away
Are all the lovely Nine that breathe but freedom's day.
Say even his serfs, half humanized, should learn
Their human rights,—will Mars put out his flame
In Russian bosoms? no, he'll bid them burn
A thousand years for nought but martial fame
Like Romans:—yet forgive me, Roman name!
Rome could impart what Russia never can—
Proud civic right to salve submission's shame.
Our strife is coming; but in freedom's van
The Polish Eagle's fall is big with fate to man.
Their human rights,—will Mars put out his flame
In Russian bosoms? no, he'll bid them burn
A thousand years for nought but martial fame
Like Romans:—yet forgive me, Roman name!
Rome could impart what Russia never can—
Proud civic right to salve submission's shame.
Our strife is coming; but in freedom's van
The Polish Eagle's fall is big with fate to man.
Proud bird of old! Mohammed's moon recoiled
Before thy swoop: had we been timely bold,
That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled
Earth's new oppressors as it foiled her old.
Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold.
And colder still Polonia's children find
The sympathetic hands that we outhold.
But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind
Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind.
Before thy swoop: had we been timely bold,
That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled
Earth's new oppressors as it foiled her old.
Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold.
And colder still Polonia's children find
The sympathetic hands that we outhold.
But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind
Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind.
So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part
My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends
With Poland's name—name written on my heart.
My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends!
Your sorrow in nobility transcends
Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; but shame
Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends;
Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and name
For his with all his wealth and all his felon fame.
My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends
With Poland's name—name written on my heart.
My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends!
Your sorrow in nobility transcends
Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; but shame
Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends;
Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and name
For his with all his wealth and all his felon fame.
226
Thee, Niemciewitz,
whose song of stirring power
The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands,—
Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower
The patricide, who in thy palace stands,
May envy! Proudly may Polonia's bands
Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn,
Saying—‘Russia from the metal of these brands
Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn.
Our setting star is your misfortune's rising morn.’
This venerable man, the most popular of Polish poets, and President of the Academy of Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written; he was seventy-four years old, but his noble spirit was rather mellowed than decay by age. He was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, he bore also a strong resemblance to him in countenance.
The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands,—
Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower
The patricide, who in thy palace stands,
May envy! Proudly may Polonia's bands
Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn,
Saying—‘Russia from the metal of these brands
Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn.
Our setting star is your misfortune's rising morn.’
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell | |